January 2011: I Didn’t Get the Memo

Last year some time, I used the word Oriental in referring to someone from, well, one of the countries of the Orient.  A friend quietly pulled me aside and told me in a polite, helpful, and instructive way that Oriental is considered offensive and the proper term to use these days is Asian.  I was glad to hear this as I had no intention, whatsoever, of being offensive.   I was also completely unaware of this change.  I never got the memo.

I wrote in a blog piece recently about gay marriage and kind of did a logical extension that if gay marriages are now cool, why not polygamy?  In that piece, I wrote “The majority, not all that long ago considered it [gay marriage] an abomination against God.  Now?  It is not.  Whoever decides what God thinks simply changed their view.”  I never got that God changed His mind memo either.  

Maybe I don’t get the religious memos because I am some kind of heretic, the kind of sacrilegious soul who believes that God is probably very consistent and it is men that change their view of what God says to suit their own social and political agendas.  Gee, if I were them, I would not be sending me any memos either.  Maybe I just don’t like the idea of people telling me what God thinks when telling me such is strictly for their own benefit.

I was debating whether to actually write about this not getting the memo idea, after all, it is just a slogan.  Is the phrase that popular, is it important, would anyone actually care to read about it?  Then two days ago, I was walking to a meeting with two IT guys.  One of them, Tom, told me, “I guess you didn’t get the memo.”  I was marveling at the sign from the aforementioned divine giving me the green light on this month’s letter topic so much, that I had no clue what Tom was talking about.  He pointed out that we were all wearing brown slacks and wearing sweater vests.  Their vests were navy blue.  Mine was maroon.  In this case, I got neither the memo nor the innuendo.

When Facebook was first becoming popular, my children were in high school and college.   When people my age were just starting to sign on and inviting me to do so, I asked both children what they thought about me joining Facebook.   Aram and Armene both sent me very clear memos stating that it was unacceptable for me to join.  My son went on to say that if I joined he would be obliged to terminate his account.  OK, that was pretty clear.  I had no problem complying as Facebook was truly the realm of the young back then.  Since then, Facebook has gone main-stream to become the primary social interaction site for many people threatening to make social email addresses obsolete.  Facebook has become a primary internet marketing vehicle for many businesses.  I guess it is OK for me to sign up now.  My kids, however, never sent me that memo giving me the green light.  If they did, I never got it.

I recently took a trip to New Jersey.  As I went by plane, I had the opportunity to go through security and experience, once again, the joys of that experience.  My routine is to be prepared by putting all metal objects in my briefcase keeping only my ID and boarding pass.  I placed everything on the conveyor for inspection.  As I was about to go through the metal detector, I took out my boarding pass to show to the agent.  On the outbound flight, the lady told me “we no longer require you to show your boarding pass at this point.”  I replied “Thank you” and thought “hmmm... I did not get that memo.”  On the return flight, I put the boarding pass in my briefcase.  At the same point, the agent asked to see my boarding pass?!  I said, “I was told by another agent that this was no longer required.”  He replied, “That is not the case.”  Either he didn’t get the memo, or the other agent made up the contents of a memo that never existed.  I would be more confused except that the TSA is involved and somehow that makes this all explainable.

The question is, why am I not getting the memos?  First off, it could be that I am, in fact, expecting a memo.  This mode of communication has most definitely been supplanted by emails.  So I rephrase, why am I not getting these emails regarding changes in appropriate politically correct vocabulary, changes in style and fashion, and religious dogma?  Is it because I have so many email addresses?  Is it going to spam?  Am I not keeping up with my correspondence?  Am I just a moron... oops... I mean stupid er... mentally challenged... OK then... special?  

See I am clearly not getting the memos.

Sometimes I get one memo but fail to get the follow-up that negates the first.  I remember when eggs were all but taboo.  I got a memo saying something about that they were laden with cholesterol and should not be eaten unless one wanted to be a social outcast and treated as a kind of dietary leper.  Then, I have no clue when, eggs were all of a sudden incredible and edible.  I never got that second memo even though several people have pointed out that I must have simply by virtue of using the words:  incredible and edible.  I have no clue what they mean by that.  I suspect I may have gotten this memo and forgotten all about it.  (Memo to self, try to remember to write a blog piece on... what was it?   Oh yeah, memory.)

Sticking with the food theme, the same thing has happened with coffee.  It’s good for you.  It is really bad for you.  It won’t hurt you in moderation.  This is an interesting case, I have been getting these memos but they simply confuse the heck out of me.  Drink coffee?  Don’t drink coffee.  If you must drink, avoid caffeine and drink only de-caff.  Avoid de-caff at all costs.  Sheesh.  It makes my head spin.  In this case, I actually ignore the memos, throw them all in the trash can, and continue to drink a few cups of coffee a day.

Most of the memos I never get are fashion related pure and simple.  I never got the memo letting me know that wearing expensive jeans and a dressy shirt with big flowery embroidery is acceptable for any social engagement.  Heck, I don’t even know where to buy such shirts.  That information must have been in the memo.   I somehow got the memos that ties were passé, I guess the flowery embroidery replaces the design flair men’s fashion used to get from ties.  

I wear baseball caps practically year round for all but the dressiest occasions.  Judging from the comments of others this fad may well have passed peaked and I never got the memo.    Sunglasses used to be big and then they got smaller and narrow.  They have kind of become big again.  I never got either of those memos.

Sometimes I get the memo but it just confuses me.  Our company email is Google based.  It used to have a separate sign-in page complete with our company logo.  It worked very well.  Sometime last year, Google decided to incorporate all emails in to the same standard Google sign-on and applications.  Sounds great.  It did not work for me for some reason.  As we actually pay Google an annual fee for our own email addresses and system, we get support.  There is no 800 number or anything.  Everything is done by email.  They sent me an email explaining how to fix things and move forward.  I have read that email several times and simply feel... um... incompetent which is even worse than being confused.  I would have provided an excerpt of the email but for fear that everyone but me would understand it.

We wrote back the Google people saying their email was confusing.  They sent an email back apologizing and telling me exactly what to do.  The explanation was marginally more understandable, at least enough that I thought I knew what to do.  So, I proceeded to execute the instructions.  The results?  I think the proper word to explain this is the Yiddish word - bupkis.

Who writes these memos?  When do they write them?  Who keeps the database of recipients?  How are they sent?  Is there a big building that houses an organization dedicated to crafting and sending these memos to all but the likes of me?  Do people get degrees in memo writing?  If so, what universities offer such courses and degrees?  Simply, I am not in the loop of this entire process.  Maybe I am not as smart as I think.  I have heard murmurs that the memos are actually secretly transmitted in TV shows, embedded in newspaper and magazine articles.  I probably should watch American Idol, Survivor, and Dancing with the Stars.   It is all right there in front of me and I may be just too thick headed to see the veritable writing on the wall or video monitor.

Surely as we age there is a real risk of hardening.  Certainly, we all know of the hardening of the arteries.  But there is a mental hardening as well.  Our attitudes, vocabulary, and way of looking at things can also settle and harden. We get stuck in our ways.  We eschew change.   While, I think that I am open and amenable to change, certain changes just irritate me to no end.  I hate the constant upgrading of software on my laptop.  I really hate ERP system upgrades and the chaos caused by new versions and new modules.  See how thick and hardened I have become?  Perhaps, these ethereal memos are wafting their way to me and just bouncing off of my hardened sensibility and fall by the wayside.

Speaking of hardening of the mindset, I truly believe people become resistant to change.  I am not against progress, life today is full of many wonderful tools and technologies that make life easier.  Part of me just wishes that we could just keep some things just the way they are.  I kind of enjoy things like newspapers, books, and music.  I liked music when records and radio were the only real formats available to me.  I embraced cassette tapes though I never did like the very concept of 8-track tapes.  I saw the value in CDs which finally provided a format that did not wear out.  Now, with the digital mp3 and mp4 players, I can carry all my music with me wherever I go.  Each change was amazing but also kind of a pain in learning something new, buying the music all over again in the new format, or transferring everything over to the new format.  In these kinds of cases, I want to issue a memo back to all saying I have to approve of every new change.  My growing resistance to such change sometimes makes me feel old.

Going back to the first example, I actually never meant anything bad by using the word Oriental.  I never even took it as anything negative.  There are negative terms that people use when referring to Asians.  I have seen the World War II and Vietnam War movies.  I worked in the auto industry when the Japanese were kicking our behinds.  I really never use any of those words.  When referring to the peoples of the Asian countries, I used a word that I had heard in polite society and school growing up:  Oriental.  I even knew that Europeans and Americans (the kind that emigrated from Europe) were referred to as Occidental.  The terms are Latin in origin.  Orient meaning to rise, i.e. where the sun rises, in the east.  Occident means to fall or set.  The sun sets in the west.   The terms were, I believed, innocuous.  I believe the memo on not using Occident came out well before I was born.  How is it, I even know this term?  Perhaps it is this bit of pun phrase:

Columbus discovered the New World by Occident

Needless to say, I had to Google the title of this piece:  I Didn’t Get the Memo.  The number one hit was from urbandictionary.com.  The definition provided there is “To be or to remain uninformed, especially about something that is common knowledge to everyone else.”  Well I seem to have gotten that memo as that is pretty close to how I would define it.  The website even tried to entice me to buy items with the phrase “didn’t get the memo” or the entire definition.  There were coffee cups, beer steins, t-shirts, bumper stickers, hats, and even greeting cards.   Will I buy any of them?  Nah...

I close by asking all of you to do me a favor if you would.  Henceforth, when you get one of these memos forward it to me.  I would be most appreciative.

Youth, Money, and God

I was on the stationary bicycle this morning.  It was 5 am.  As usual, I was pedaling in front of the TV.  Often, I watch part of a movie.  I try to find something I like that is closer to the end of the movie than the beginning.  I hate getting into a story only to have to cut it off when my workout is over.  Many times I will simply watch a movie I have seen before and liked, e.g. The Waterboy, as I can watch any 30 or 40 minutes of it without wondering how it began or how it will end.  

This morning, there was no movie that caught my eye.  The History Channel was still in their overnight infomercial mode (who watches those things in the middle of the night?), so I ended up watching Real Sport with Bryant Gumbel on HBO.  I had never watched that show before.  I was pleasantly surprised at how engaging the stories were.  It is kind of a 60 Minutes dedicated to sports related stories.  http://www.hbo.com/real-sports-with-bryant-gumbel/index.html

One segment that stuck with me was a report on the number of NFL players who are broke, declare bankruptcy, and are divorced shortly after their careers end:

• By the time they have been retired for two years, 78% of former NFL players have gone bankrupt or are under financial stress because of joblessness or divorce.

• Within five years of retirement, an estimated 60% of former NBA players are broke.
• Numerous retired MLB players have been similarly ruined.http://www.businessinsider.com/10-ways-sports-stars-destroy-their-finances-2009-9#ixzz1C9JcCt3Z

The Real Sports story centered on two players that were being paid $5M a year who can barely make ends meet now.   Players think the gravy train will never end and that the huge amounts of money they have is unlimited.  They do no believe they could ever spend $5, $10, or even $20M.  Apparently,  somewhere in the neighborhood of 78% of NFL players do.  They buy too many homes and too many cars.  They invest their money in shaky and risky ventures that include their own restaurants and night clubs.  The players’ associations and leagues warn them but the great majority of the players are extremely self-confident and falsely believe that the domain of their confidence and invincibility is not limited to the playing field.  They believe that confidence is all they need to master all aspects of life and financial management.  It is a cruel and rude awakening for them and a sobering lesson for the rest of us.

I have long quipped that one of the reasons I believe in God is that I am thoroughly convinced there has to be a divine being with the infinite wisdom NOT to give me unlimited wealth or ridiculously good looks.  I am not at all sacrilegious here.  I am serious with a humorous twist.  I know that if I had had unlimited funds, or say several million dollars, at the ripe age of 18, 20, or even 22, there would have been a very high probability that I would have gone insane and spent it all.  I would have had a great time, but I would have spent it all.  I know that I was simply not mature enough back then.  I am not so sure I am now.

When I think of professional athletes and the humble beginnings most of them have had, I am not surprised to hear stories of them losing it all almost as fast as they earned it.  I was shocked at 78% figure cited above.  It seems I should be more impressed with the 22% of the athletes that manage their funds to preserve and grow the rewards they have earned.

I want to talk sense into the 78% but as stated on the show this morning... they just don’t listen.  I know I wouldn't have at that age.

Songs to Aging Children

It is New Years Day.  Among watching the college bowl games, I thought a bit about it being 2011.  It occurred to me that this year marks the 40th Anniversary of my high school graduation. This quickly turned into a chain reaction of thoughts that end at the resurrection of an old idea that I think I will put into action.  I am almost ashamed to say it may be, you know, something akin to a resolution.

What is the idea?  It is to create a blog for people of my generation as a follow up to a piece I wrote in November 2008, http://thissideoffifty.blogspot.com/2009/01/november-2008-was-it-weirdest-of-times.html.  My premise was that coming of age in the late 1960s and early 1970s was a unique and weird time to grow up.  We were of the Woodstock Generation in which we, well at least I, bought into the notion of creating a better world where peace reigned and where everyone was supposed to get back to the land and live a natural style of life.  It was a time of great social change led by a combination of the Civil RIghts and Anti-War movements which in turn led to Women’s and Gay Liberation.   It was complicated by the popularity of drugs and emergence of Free Love.  It was a unique, weird, and exciting time to come of age.

We are  that generation.  We are the baby boomers, the first generation in the world that grew up with television.  We were the first generation where having a college degree supplanted the magic and need for just a high school diploma.  We were the optimistic generation.  We could change the world... nay, we believed that we would change the world even given the assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King.  We were the Levis generation that wanted to buy the world a Coke.  And to top it off, it was fueled for the most part by some great Rock N’ Roll music that peaked in that great Summer of Love.  

Since I wrote that November 2008 piece, I have wondered how others in my generation (Talking ‘bout My Generation) felt about what they were thinking then and how things actually turned played out forty years later.  So, I am thinking of creating this blog space and encouraging everyone and anyone that wants to express their story.  I think it would be a great forum for expression and discussion.  Here are some thought starter questions that I would to see this blog explore.

• What did the movement of the late 1960s and early 1970s mean to you?
• Did you believe in the ideals of that era?  Do you still believe?  If yes to the first and no to the second, how and why did your beliefs change?
• Did you sell out to the man or even become the man?  How do you feel about that?
• Did you buy into the generation gap?  Did it strain your relationship with your parents?  How did it feel watching your own children pass through adolescence?  Did you become your parents?
• Did you hit any of the major events?  Woodstock?  The peace protest in Washington, DC?  Were you in San Francisco in the Summer of Love?
• What did you learn in those days that remains an integral part of your life today?
• What did you learn, do, or think back in those days that you are quite happy are not part of your lifestyle today?

I encourage anyone that is motivated by this topic to submit a posting.  I will moderate and approve the postings.  I may also suggest some editing to make your posting more interesting and engaging.  You can post under your own name or anonymously.   The point is to get some good memories, good reflections, and good discussion going in this area.  

I am going to moderate the comments because, quite simply, I want this to be a positive experience for all.  If someone posts something honestly maybe as a catharsis or to get something off of their chest, I do not want to see them berated in the comment section.  As was Bill and Ted’s motto:  Be Excellent to Everyone.

So, what do you think?  Is this a cool idea?  If you think it is a cool idea, take a shot and express yourself.  I would love to hear what other people are thinking and reflecting on our adolescent and college years.

Songs to aging children come,
Aging children, I am one...

Maybe Joni Mitchell will even post something...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here is the new blog:  http://songstoagingchildren.blogspot.com/
The posting here is also posted there and should be the only joint posting.
Consider submitting your story, your thoughts, your reflections, and reminiscences.  Send them to mgavoor@gmail.com
 

STFU!

On December 20, 2010, I posted “Curmudgeon or just a Crumb?” on this very blog: Curmudgeon or just a Crumb? It is probably worth reading that before this one.

It was not an overwhelmingly popular posting.  But it did resonate with several friends.  I have come to realize, without the benefit of any statistical polling mind you, that there is a large number of people that do not want to be told what to do.  They are tired of getting unsolicited advice from others.  I came to realize that it is not just me.  A fair number of people feel this way and silently endure.  

I believe that Richard Nixon was absolutely correct;  there is indeed a silent majority.  This silent majority is pestered and verbally prodded by a very vocal minority.  They are told that they ought to quit smoking, lose weight, be more assertive, and that they ought to do this or don’t do that... blah blah blah.  The silent majority is overly preached to and preached upon.  The preacher could be a spouse, another family member, a self-appointed leader of a social group or clique i.e. a friend, a boss, a co-worker, and, yes, even a bona fide preacher.

I am not talking about legitimate warnings like “the roads are a sheet of ice” or being pulled out of the way of a falling safe or piano.  I am referring to the busy body rants and raves of people that have the need to hear their own voice telling others what to do.  The silent majority, for the most part, endures quietly and passively, nodding, and saying just enough to get through the advice as quickly as possible.  They are preached and dictated to because they are passive and meek.  Sometimes, however,  it builds up and the lamb turns into a lion and lashes basically telling the blowhard to stop.  There are many ways to say this but at the very core is a universal command that resonates oh so well in these cases:  Shut The F*ck Up (STFU).

STFU... I like it.  Why not make it a movement.  It is kind of my own TEA Party kind of thing but not really political.  Well, that is not quite true, if some buttinski is berating your vote or view, you just say STFU!

• “My those pants are really tight on you! You should..”  Stop them right there with a STFU!
• “You need to be more of a team player” - STFU!
• “Why don’t you consider...” I do not want to hear it, STFU!
• You are  barbecuing and every male family member and friend is giving you advice on how and when to turn the meat, how high the flame should or shouldn’t be:   STFU!
• “Haven’t seen you in church for awhile buddy.”  “That is because I haven’t been here for awhile”- STFU!”

People will leave you alone.  They will change their approach and tone when they talk to you.  No one wants to be told to STFU just as much as you don’t want to experience the largess of their lame unasked for and unwanted advice.

STFU!  Say it.  It feels good.  You can say it sharply, loudly, and with a twinge of anger.  You can also drag it out.  No matter what it should be a little louder and a little angrier than your normal tone.  It is akin to the Howard Beale rant, “I am mad as hell and I am not going to take it anymore,” in the the 1976 movie Network.  You will feel good letting people know where YOUR limits are for them telling you what to do.  I have seen it done several times before in my life but never fully realized the pure liberating power of it.  Relationships change when this method is used properly.   There is an art to knowing just the right time to say it in just the right tone.  I had a boss once that was simply overbearing and loved lording his position over me.  (Yeah, yeah, I know, I allowed him to do that... STFU!)  But, one day it reached a limit and I lashed out with something akin to “Stop Being such an a-hole!”  Our relationship changed after that.  He was much nicer moving forward.

It should be noted that the STFU! flare up is just that:  a flare-up.  It is about releasing negative energy like a primal scream and then returning your normal temperament.  It is a flare-up or eruption that releases pent-up energy and anger that results from incessantly being lectured and dictated to.

OK, maybe the F word isn’t for you.  That is completely understandable, I would not presume to tell you how and what to say.  That would makes me as bad as that vocal minority.   In this case, you might just stick to:

• Shut Your Pie Hole (SYPH):  I like the venereal tone of this acronym.
• Stop Telling Me What to Do (STMWTD):  The acronym is too long in this case.

Of course, you can just go with the basic Shut Up.  Keep saying over and over again, faster and louder each time until the offender gets it through his or her thick skull that you are about to come unglued.  There has to be dramatic effect to truly make STFU! work.  The drama can be real or feigned, it really doesn’t matter.  If feigned, you just need to know how good of an actor you are and respect those limits.  If you are perceived as over acting, the lashing out will have much less impact.

What is it that makes people want to tell others what to do?  Is it genetic?  Is it conditional?  Were they not loved growing up?  Or on the contrary, were they told incessantly how very smart and oh so special they were?  Often times the perpetrators have no clue as to just how annoying they have become.  They are shocked when confronted with an angry STFU backlash.   How can they be so oblivious?

Actually, how could I be so oblivious?  Oblivious to what you ask?  Until I wrote that Curmudgeon post, I did not have a clue as how people were victimized by the Vocal Minority.  Silly me to think that all the nice people were naive.  I assumed that none of this bothered them.  I believed it bothered me because I was mentally defective in some way.  Others in the Silent Majority were just nice and meek in the inherit the world beatitudic fashion.  It was an eye opener to hear others feeling the same way I was.  It is amazing that you can be alive in this world and interacting with them on a day to day basis and still know so little about humans and human natures.

Yeah, yeah, I know.  I should have studied psychology back in college... STFU!

So, there may be a real basis for the STFU Movement.  Heck, it could be a media, marketing, and promotional bonanza.  I can see:

• STFU! - The book
  It would be one of those delightful little who ate my cheesy kind of books in parable form.
  Maybe the Oprah Book Club could pick it up.
• STFU Seminars
  Did you see the Jim Carey movie - The Yes Man?  This is what I am talking about.
  Standing in front of hundreds of people having them yell STFU! and me saying, in my best drill sergeant voice, “I can’t hear you...”
• www.STFU.com
  Complete with videos, blogs, and case studies.
• @STFU
  The twitter feed in case you didn’t know.
• Facebook
  There is no need to say anything more.  Facebook has become the be all and end all of internet social media.
• The STFU! clothing line
  Think of the Life is Good product line.  As positive and uplifting as that brand is, STFU! I would the STFU! line of shirts, hoodies, caps, and jackets to be just as angry and liberating as Life is Good line is uplifting and positive.

Yet, when I think about it, there is something oxymoronic about this.  I am actually telling the meek, the mild, the Silent Majority what they should be doing?  I would be actually dictating to them how to stop others from... well... dictating to them.  It just doesn’t seem right.  There is a cosmic imbalance in this.  The STFU! movement needs to be benign and yet powerful, inert and yet viral.   Maybe just tasteful STFU! lapel pins is what we need.

Since I started this silly bit of fun, I have become more aware of just what I am saying to others from co-workers, colleagues, and friends to family.   I feel like I can write almost exactly what I want to say.  Yet, I get lazy in emails and verbally.  Why is it easier to do in writing?  Simply, because I have written 500 words a day since June 25, 2002.   Maybe it is not lazy as much as it is lack of practicing to do better.

There are many ways to say things and give people advice.  Simply being polite, not challenging the other person, and practicing the Golden Rule allows one to be able to communicate suggestions and advice in subtle helpful ways thus minimizing the probability of getting a STFU.  As stated above, lecturing others on how not to be lectured to seems wrong in concept.  Lashing out with a STFU! and the following Golden Rule seem like opposites.  Perhaps, they are opposities but in yinny and yangy kind of way.   

What motivated me to improve my writing?  Sure the daily writing honed the skills but before this daily writing regimen, I hated writing.  I wanted to write and express myself.  It was a gut wrenching experience simply because I wanted to be as precise as possible.  Simply having the words in black and white where others could read and interpret and re-read it again made me want to take great care in what I said and how I said it.  Conversations are more spontaneous.  The words are uttered and then evaporate into the air... or so was my belief.  As for e-mails, I treated them as written conversations and in treating them as such, I am cavalier in this communication channel as well.

Can I hone my verbal and email communications?  Sure I can, if i put my mind to it and pay attention to both.  The emails should be able to improve as they are written.  I have to just keep reminding myself to have the same mindset when I dash off an e-mail.  As for speaking, I am doing that all day long, I can practice in real time, all the time

Sure saying STFU! is good get others to behave with more civility.  But, maybe this idea of STFU! can be a movement not to insult people but more a reminder that if you are not thinking about what you say and how you say it... STFU!  This is how I am going to proceed.  I will try to lead by example.

How about you?  Would love to hear your comments on this.

December 2010: Another Eventful Year

My December letter of last year, 2009, was titled “An Eventful Year.”  It was the year both my children got married.  It was a joyous kind of eventful year.  In the ebb and flow of life, we experience the ups and downs, the comings and goings, and the joys and sorrows of life.  There is certainly a case to made that the sadder and sorrowful parts make the joyous parts all the more rich and sweeter.

This year, 2010, was eventful for many reasons.  Maybe every year is eventful in its own way.  As last year was the year of weddings, this year was a year of passings.  In June, my father’s sister, my Aunt Seeran Wisner, passed away.  In late July, my father in-law, Harold Mardoian, passed away.  A few days after the passing of my father in-law, my mother’s brother, Uncle Ozzie, also passed away.  Three people very close to me passed away in less than two months. 

I knew Aunt Seeran and Uncle Ozzie all my life.  They were both influential raising me.  Just about the time their influence was settling into a more adult relationship, my relationship with and influence of my father in-law began.  I am happy to have known all three and sad to see each of them pass on.  I probably should have written a monthly letter dedicated to each of them but in their passing in such proximity to each other, I decided in August to dedicate this December letter to the memory of these three wonderful and influential people.

All three were the children of Genocide survivors.  As they were  raised by that very special generation, it colored their lives and influenced who they became.   They came of age post World War II which was in many ways the zenith of the American Century.

Each of them all lived rich long lives.  Though, we would have loved to have them around for another twenty years or so.  But, they were all suffering chronic conditions and their passings were what are generally referred to as blessings.  It was their time.  While there were moments of sadness, their funerals were more celebrations of their lives.  It was good for the family to be together to mourn and fondly remember great people and the warm memories we created together.

Aunt Seeran

      Aunt Seeran:  Seeran Gavoor Wisner was the eldest child and only daughter of Aram and Agnes Gavoor.  She was born August 5, 1926 and died on June 7, 2010 a few months shy of her 84^th birthday.

I loved being around Aunt Seeran when I was a young boy.  She was doting, charming, and full of encouragement.   She was a dreamer.  She shared those dreams, big and bold.  I loved hearing them, I was inspired by them.

While I was comfortable with the manners my Mother taught me and had me follow, Aunt Seeran always added just a few more.  I found that very frustrating as a kid.  I never really liked anyone changing the rules on me.  Heck, I don’t like it anymore today.  Yet, whenever I find myself following one of the “extra” Aunt Seeran manners, I smile extra big.  For she was always right in these regards.

She loved the family.  She loved the Gavoors and the Asoians.  Like her two brothers, she loved growing up in the Armenian village of Andover, MA, the cluster of farms all part of her maternal Grandmother’s family, the Lousigians.  This was amongst the happiest times of her life.  She spoke of it often.

When I went to Boston for any reason, my wife Judy would always make sure that I included Aunt Seeran in my agenda.  It was not always convenient but I did what I could.  We would have lunch or dinner, we would go shopping, or we would visit.  I treasure each one of those lunches, dinners, and trips to Star Market.  She was genuinely happy.  Her happiness infected me.  We talked about my children and her grandchildren.  She would tell me stories about her time at Harvard, whatever was going on in her building, and, most certainly, her grandchildren which were the apples of her eye.  She would introduce me to her friends in her building and the owners of whatever restaurant we went to.  She was happy I was taking her out.  I will never forget those times, they are precious to me.  They were pure enjoyment for the two of us.

She worked at the John F. Kennedy School at Harvard.  It was the greatest job she ever had.  She helped organize every variety of conference and seminar which afforded her the opportunity to meet famous military leaders, statesmen, and journalists from all over the world.  She absolutely loved that job and had the greatest stories from that time.

I would call Aunt Seeran now and then.  I liked to keep in touch.  She would call me as well.  We got into a nice rhythm.  The funny thing, though, when I called her was that she would always mistake me for my cousin David.  She would answer the phone, “Hello?”  I would say, “Hello Auntie Seeran, how are you doing?”  She would invariably respond with, “David, tsakun, how nice of you to call.”  I would tell her who I was.   She was equally delighted it was me but she mistook me for David a lot.  I kind of liked that.  David liked it even more.

In the end, she had a form of dementia and lived in a full care facility.  While her life was not easy, it was like God took special care of her at the end of her life.  I visited her three times at that facility and saw other women with dementia.  They were ornery.  They were scared.  They did not trust anyone.  Not Aunt Seeran.  She was happy.  In fact, she was living in the happiest days of her life back in her childhood on her Grandmother’s farm in Andover, MA.

When I would visit Aunt Seeran there, she knew I was someone she knew and loved.  Though she would know exactly who I was.  She would tell me that in the coming weekend her father (who had passed on in 1959) would be picking her up to go to a cook-out in Andover at the farm and would I like to go.  Sure I would.  In my last visit this past May, I told her I had been by 179 School St. her parents last home, the house into which I was born.  She lit up and told me that was her mother’s home.  I said that is why I stopped by.  She told me to call her mother (my grandmother who died in the mid-1980s) and say hi.  I told her nothing would give me greater pleasure.  Aunt Seeran, my cousin Bruce, and I all had big smiles.

We buried her in the same plot as her Asoian grandparents in West Parish Cemetary in Andover.  She is again with the village, I believe that is exactly where she belongs. 

Uncle Azad

 Uncle Ozzie: Azad Merian was the eldest of three children and the only son of Levon and Azniv Merian.  He was born on April 29, 1931 and passed away on July 29, 2010.  His parents, my grandparents, named him Azad which means free in Armenian.  They gave him that name because it meant so much for them to have escaped the horrors of the Genocide of the Armenian people.  They were so happy to be in the land of the free that they bestowed this name upon their first born.  He was always Uncle Ozzie or Uncle Oz to me, but Armenians that spoke the language always called him Azad.

As we lived a few miles from each other in Detroit and were a very close family, Uncle Oz was always around.  He had a great influence upon me the way that a close Uncle can as being more friend and confidant than ones Father can be.  We spent a lot of time together both in family gatherings on just ourselves.

Uncle Oz was a product of the streets of Detroit.  He served in the US Army in Korea and worked at Cadillac Motors for many years.  He had four children Sandy, Leo, Ralph and Chris, my first cousins with his first wife, Aunt Annie.  

Uncle Oz was handy to the nth degree.  He could build things and fix things and he did it often.  He was a machine repairman in the Army and then at Cadillac Motors.  He was always tinkering and thinking.  I admired this in him knowing early on I could never really ever be that way.  Probably, I really did not want to.

 I did help him design the house he built on Georgian Bay though.  Armed with nothing more than high school trigonometry, I helped him design the pitch of the roof and wall heights of the second floor of his place to maximize the living space.  I was delighted to have been able to help him in this project.

Because he had three boys and because he was handy, he cut their hair.  For economy of scale, he also cut my hair.  He built his own barber chair putting on old oak desk chair on a pedestal.  He was really a master barber as long as you wanted a buzz cut.  He used two attachments:  short for the top and shorter for the edges.  I sported a buzz cut until either Junior High or High School.

Most men dream of having things such as someday getting an antique car, maybe having a second house on a lake, perhaps becoming a gunsmith or furniture maker, becoming a hunter, having their own business, learning to play the piano, or whatever else strikes our fancies.  Not everyone acts on any let alone all.   Uncle Ozzie was amazing in this regard and I really did not fully realize nor appreciate it until he died this year and I reflected on his life and how he lived it.  He did things.  He did things he wanted to do and loved to do.  And he did these things as much or more than anyone else I have ever known.  Everyone has an excuse why they shouldn’t or couldn’t do this.  Not Uncle Ozzie.  He did it all and on his terms.  He did it while not being an overly wealthy man.  He was rich, however, in spirit and self-confidence.  I would have been well served to have learned that all important lesson from him.

I have many great memories of Uncle Oz.  Perhaps the best memories are the summers in college when I worked with him.  At this point, Uncle Oz had a contract with HUD to board up and winterize houses they had foreclosed on.  We were on first cuts of the bleeding edge that foretold the difficulties Detroit was about to endure.  It was a great time.  I would drive to Uncle’s house and we would go out for breakfast, work, have a late lunch and work again until five.  We worked and ate and talked.  He shared with me his philosophy and ideas.  

I cannot even remember if he paid me.  I am sure he did but the value of the job was the time I spent with my uncle.  They are times I will never forget.

Papa

      Papa:  Harold Mardoian was second son of three of Hagop and Zartar Mardoian.  He was born on June 25, 1927 and passed away on July 26, 2010. 

I first met Harold when I started dating his daughter, now my wife, Judy back in 1970.  Almost when we first met, I used to get to Chicago to visit… with increasing frequency.  I used to stay at his home when I visited.  From maybe my second or maybe my third trip of who knows how many, he started calling me “Maro Polo” because I was always travelling.   He was not the first to call me that, but he did it the most.  After a while, I just became Marco and was that until he passed away.

From my first getting to know him, there was a constant and underlying trait of this man.  Harold Mardoian was a man of quiet determination.   He was one of the hardest working men I have ever known.   He devoted long intense hours to his work never really allowing himself any of the pleasures and pastimes most of the rest of use allow ourselves.  He dedicated to himself to providing the best for his family. 

He was a self-made man. With his brothers he started Mardoian Brothers food. He learned business in the very real world in the independent grocery business, a business of perishable inventories and razor thin margins. There was no quit in him. He was determined. When there was an obstacle, he did not let it stop him.  He kept thinking about it and trying to figure out what he could do and how he could do it.  He would figure out a way.  He always figured out the way with quiet determination.

Being in the grocery and then food purveyance business, Harold learned to wheel and deal, to negotiate.  It is a matter of survival in that business.  I can imagine his quiet determination infuriated some in negotiation, but he always sought out the win-win. He never tried to take advantage.   It was a core principal that everyone had to make something in a deal.  While he was nobody’s fool, it was this eminent sense of fairness that made a strong positive impression on everyone that knew him and did business with

From the food and grocery business, the experience he gained in buying and selling there, Harold also became an astute investor.  He moved his trading skills to a higher plane.  He did a lot of his own research and was quite successful.  It was his passion.  He understood markets, market trends, the human motivations, and economics of it all unbelievably well.  Formal education or not, he could have taught a course in the subject.  He was investment counselor, behind the scenes, for several family members with the simple goal of not wanting others to have to worry about finances in their retirement years.  Speaking of retirement, my Father In-Law was primarily an investor in his retirement.  He would study and watch the financial channels, always with a pad of paper and pen at hand.  He would learn, contemplate, and then make his moves.

During his working years, Harold was about running his business to the exclusion of all but family events.  In retirement, he and my mother in-law Mary made up the time by touring the world.  They went everywhere from Australia to Armenia.   It was a wonderful time for them and their dear friends Winnie and Jim Reidy.

Harold was an attentive and sincere listener.  He was not an “I, I, me” person.  He definitely did not like to hear himself talk.  He would listen and think.  He would listen to learn.  He would then think about what was being said and then give his own opinion.  His views were usually pretty insightful.  If someone was sharing a problem with him, he would do what he did his whole business life… try to figure out a solution.  I told him once about some obsolete inventory I “inherited” to the tune of $6MM when I took the job that brought me to Chicago.  There were two things about this pile of obsolete stuff that he kept pondering.  First, how did the pile start and get so big?  Second, he could not stop thinking about how to sell it all.  This was his way.

To me Harold was first Mr. Mardoian, then Dad, in for the past 15 years or so, we all called him Papa.  This is what his grandchildren called him:  Papa.  As the grandchildren grew, it became apparent to all that Papa was most fitting.  We all came to call him that.

Papa suffered from Parkinson’s disease.  This disease is slow and progressive, slowly taking control of one’s body.  It does not get better, it just gets worse.  There are wonderful medications that really help slow the advancement but nothing to reverse it.   Harold never let the disease get him down.  At least he never showed it.  He wanted to attend every family event that he possibly could.  In the thirteen months before his passing, he attended the weddings of my daughter Armené and Michael in Los Angeles, my son Aram and Anoush in New York City, and his niece Ani and Vicken in Boston.  He danced at each wedding and when he did, he stole the show. 

We just had the first Christmas without Papa.  We felt it and we talked about it.  While it was his time to go, as it was Seeran’s and Ozzie’s, the hole in our lives is still there.  We missed his quiet conversation and unique wit.  I miss all three.

Two More:  My neighbor Paul Kedo passed away on October 11^th at the age of 61.  Paul was a great fellow whom I got to know when we came to find out we were both unemployed.  We decided to network with each and form an informal support group with another neighbor Rick Schneider.

Paul suffered from a rare kind of cancerous tumor outside his pancreas for over eleven years.  He never led on he had this condition.  As he was looking for a job and had two strikes against him being a white male of his age, he kept his condition very private.  He never even told Rick nor me.

Rick and I were both shocked to learn of his passing.  We assumed it was sudden and shocked and saddened further to learn he had been fighting a terminal illness all along.  It is tough enough being unemployed.

We also never knew he was the Renaissance man:  a pilot, a sailor, and a painter.  We only knew him in the context of the job search we were all engaged in and the support we were providing each other.   Rick and I met for coffee after the funeral.  We met at the same neighborhood Starbucks where we used to meet with Paul.  We met to discuss that while we knew Paul, we did not know Paul more than in the context in which we met… and how that was our loss.  We discussed how private he was about his illness.  We talked about how much we will miss him.

Perhaps the saddest case of everyone I knew that passed away this year was Bob Lewis (November 4, 1971 – November 21, 2010).  Bob was my controller at Sanford Brands when I worked there.  When in my first few weeks there I had a chance to interview this internal candidate, I noted two things from his resume.  First, he was born the year I graduated from high school.  Second, we both were graduates of the University of Michigan – Dearborn.  In the interview, we took an instant liking to each other.  He was basically a shoe-in for the job.  On top of everything else, I learned he had lived in Livonia.

Bob and I had a lot of fun and we did a lot of good.  He was a good finance guy and wonderfully irreverent when it came to suffering the blow-hardiness of others.  We would be sitting in a meeting when someone speaking would start spewing nonsense as if it were Nobel Prize winning economics.  Bob would give me a look that would have my having to suppress breaking out into laughter. 

He was a great friend and a great Michigan fan.  I had emailed him in early November wishing him Happy Birthday and offering him my Michigan – Iowa football tickets.  He thanked me and declined the tickets because he was going deer hunting with his father.  I found myself at a funeral home in Livonia on the Friday after Thanksgiving for his wake.

Bob and I were let go from Sanford at the same time.  He was fortunate enough to find a job immediately which was good as he had recently bought a house and more importantly had a new son.  Bob passed away raking the leaves in November a few weeks after his 39^th birthday.  He passed out and was never revived.  It turns out he had an enlarged heart and a bad valve.  My heart goes out to his wife and infant son.

In closing, I hope 2011 is wonderful year for all of you.  I am certain it will be eventful… 

Christmas 2010

For the past few years, I have been getting up before everyone on Christmas morning.  Perhaps, I cannot sleep.  Maybe I have too much on my mind.  Probably, it is simply the time I am used to waking up.  Whatever the reason, I have come to like this time of the morning on this day.  You know “not a creature was stirring” and all that.

But it is absolutely true, this is one of the quietest times to be awake.   Until 2007, we were travelling from Detroit and then Connecticut to my in-laws in Lake Forest, IL where we now live.  For most of those years, my children dictated the time we woke on Christmas morning.  When they were younger, it was pretty early as they were anxious to see what Santa Claus had brought them.   When they were in high school and college and more prone to sleeping in, I would wake up before them but I just stayed in bed.  I was not in my own house and my in-laws did not have WiFi.

In 2007, I woke up in my own home on Christmas morning for the first time in many years.  I woke up early, a good two hours before anyone else would be stirring.  I made myself a cup of coffee and sat and reflected.  As the coffee dissipated the cobwebs, I began thinking of my transition, at that time, from Colgate to Sanford, from Wilton, CT to Lake Forest, IL.  I began thinking of the people I worked with and was working with at that time.   I had been in the habit of sending out a Christmas message to the people I worked with, peers and subordinates for the most part, but that year in 2007, I composed and emailed a short message to my team at Sanford and then to the old team at Colgate.

It felt good to do that.  It was like a modern cyber version of making the rounds, knocking on the doors of friends, family, and colleagues to wish them a Merry Christmas and share in some Christmas cheer and spirit both the kind that emanates from the heart and the kind you drink from a glass.  I have done it since to some degree.

This year, I am writing a longer piece by design.  I write every day as part of my regimen.  Rather than write a short greeting card message, I am opting to dedicate my daily writing to what is a really long Christmas Card.  This is more the mode as so many people are sending out e-cards, e-mails, and e-such in lieu of traditional cards.

I will not email the message but rather the link to my message on my blog.  I may even tweet it.  Oh, I am quite the modern fellow.

On Christmas Eve, we had our traditional gathering.  It used to be at my in-laws but since moving to Illinois it has been at our home.   The core cast on Christmas Eve has stayed the same, my wife’s immediate family and her cousins on her father’s side and their families.  This year, we invited close friends and their guests.  At the peak of the evening, we had 32 people in our house which was full of light, food, and cheer.

At one point in the evening, my cell phone rang.  It was my good friend Andres from Uruguay calling to convey his Christmas wishes.  It was very nice to talk to him a few moments.  I am still of a generation where an international call is a huge deal.  I am not sure why that is because with internet phone services such as Skype, it is not really anything special.  Yet, getting a call from half-way around the world is still cool.

Maybe I am getting too old, but I was exhausted at the end of the evening.  I guess overeating can do that.  Perhaps it was due to shoveling the snow to keep the walk as clean as possible for the guests who began arriving a half hour after I finished.  It certainly was not due to the magnificent décor or the unbelievable offering of delicacies.  I was responsible for none that truly exhausting work.  That credit and honor goes to Judy who is actually energized by such efforts and is most talented in every aspect of such.

Everyone reported that the roads were treacherous.  But in the Northern Hemisphere, you cannot get anymore Currier & Ives than a light, steady, and accumulating snowfall on Christmas Eve unless we had abandoned cars for sleighs.  It was a true White Christmas Eve.

Our son, Aram, his wife Anoush and her father Yervant were able to join us.  It is great having them here.  Our daughter Armené and her husband Michael are in Los Angeles spending the holiday with his family.  The rest of my immediate family stayed in Detroit.  We talked to them over the phone.  Everyone knew that Armené would have loved to have been with us.  She is the most traditional in that Currier & Ives, White Christmas, sense.  She is of the strong belief that it is supposed to be cold and snowing on Christmas.  It is best when there is a fresh blanket of the white stuff covering the twinkling light decorations on every house.

It is not yet 7 am as I write this.  It is quiet and there is just a hint of dawn as I look out the window.  The snow is still there, of course, but the twinkling lights were dimmed hours ago.   It is at this very hour that I think of all our friends and family.  I think mostly of those of you that I will not see today or in the next week.  The contrast of these memorable reflections in my warm home contrasted to the cold temperatures outside contribute to just how much I have come to value this hour of this holiday.

I am delighted to reach out this very quiet moment to friends and family all over the United States and all over the world and convey our warm Christmas wishes to you and yours.  Even moreso, I hope that 2011 is a year of health, happiness, and prosperity for you and yours.

The Tortured Ear

The History Channel informed via their daily email that on this date in 1888, Vincent Van Gogh cut off his ear.  Actually he only cut off the lower portion of his ear.  

Apparently, he was severely depressed.  He did get a painting out of the act - Self Portrait with Bandaged Ear.  I am guessing the cutting of the ear and the self portrait did not help with the depression as two years later Van Gogh shot himself and died a few days later.

I have often been intrigued with the cutting off of the ear.  Why the ear?  Why not other body parts?  The pinky toe?  I know, there is the obvious self mutilation body part, but I refuse to go there.  I was living under the impression a woman was involved and he sent the severed ear to her. Again the History.com helps clarify what actually happened:

Gauguin came to stay with him in Arles and the two men worked together for almost two months. However, tensions developed and on December 23, in a fit of dementia, Van Gogh threatened his friend with a knife before turning it on himself and mutilating his ear lobe. Afterward, he allegedly wrapped up the ear and gave it to a prostitute at a nearby brothel.

I liked the idea that he did this because of unrequited love.  I always tried to figure out if he actually thought that might endear her to him.   I am under the belief that sending a bloody severed body part to a woman is not the best strategy to melt her heart.  But, what do I know?  I am not an expert in these regards.  Now, I see that Vince actually wrapped up the ear and gave it to a prostitute.  Well this raises even more questions which I am even less qualified to answer.  Did he know the prostitute?  Did he really like her or did he give her the ear because she had provided services below his expectation?  Why didn’t he paint her?  This inquiring mind wants to know!  I imagine when the lady got the wrapped ear and opened it, she probably said the late 19th Century French equivalent of WTF and tossed the whole thing in the trash.

I do not understand this kind of depression or this kind of self-mutilation.  It is foreign to me.  I belong more to the “Eat your way out of Depression” school of thought.  This is a sister academy to “Binge Eat your way out of any Situation” school.   The modern world, at least the American modern world, is geared to providing supplies to these schools.  We have every variety of sweet, salty, fat, sweet and salty, salty and fat, sweet and fat, and, most certainly, sweet, salty, and fat processed food offerings that exist for this purpose:  to forgot all our troubles through massive calorie intake.  We have even invented television with 180+ channels of mind numbing programming to aid in this overall process.  

I wonder how Vincent might of fared in today’s world?  Would he just be a fat slob doing custom airbrushing of motorcycle parts.  Maybe a tattoo artist.  Perhaps he would be a heavily sedated website designer.

Vincent Van Gogh is the prototype tortured artist.  The History.com piece said he only sold one painting in his life.  Today corporations, museums, and really rich individuals pay millions for his work.  His images can be found everywhere.

Many would be artists have embraced the tortured part, most lack grossly in the talent part.